If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where

Hear the immortal words of Orson Welles, the visionary who gave us Citizen Kane, a man who understood both triumph and ruin: “If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.” In these words he revealed a wisdom deeper than cinema itself—that life is not a single tale, but a tapestry of beginnings and endings, victories and losses, joys and griefs. And whether one calls it “happy” or “tragic” depends not upon the events alone, but upon the point at which one chooses to rest the telling.

For a story is never truly finished while life endures. What seems like a triumph may be followed by downfall; what seems like a disaster may yet give birth to renewal. Thus, the “ending” is but a frame we set around a moment. A wedding may appear a happy ending, but it is only the start of another tale, filled with trials and burdens. A defeat may appear an ending of despair, but from it may spring resilience, new purpose, and the quiet triumphs of the soul. Welles, who lived through the rise and decline of his own career, knew this truth intimately.

The ancients spoke likewise. Consider the fall of Troy: had the poets ended their tale with the wooden horse, it might have seemed the glorious victory of cunning. Yet told further, it became a story of blood, enslavement, and wandering. Or think of Odysseus: had his tale ended with the fall of Troy, his life would have seemed tragic, a hero left homeless. Yet Homer carried the story onward through storm and trial until the moment of his return, and thus we remember his tale as a saga of endurance crowned with reunion. The same life may wear both masks, depending on where the tale is cut.

History itself confirms Welles’s words. Abraham Lincoln’s life, if ended at his early failures in politics, would have seemed a story of defeat and obscurity. But told to its later chapters, it became one of greatness, a man who guided a nation through its darkest hour. Yet if the tale is extended further, into the moment of his assassination, it takes again the tone of tragedy. Which, then, is true? All of them. The happy ending or the sorrowful one depends on where the story is stopped.

And so it is with each of us. In moments of despair, we are tempted to believe our story has ended, that the page has closed with failure or grief. But Welles reminds us that the tale is not finished until we decide to stop telling it. What we call an ending is often but a chapter. The broken heart may heal, the lost hope may be reborn, the sorrow may give way to a dawn. If you long for a happy ending, do not close the book too soon. Endure, write further pages, and you may yet find joy beyond the shadows.

Yet, O seeker, let this wisdom also temper your pride. For victories too are fleeting; if you stop your story at the moment of glory, it may shine like a jewel. But if you carry it further, pride may fade, and triumph may dissolve into decline. Therefore, be humble in success, knowing it is but a moment in the larger journey, and be steadfast in sorrow, knowing it too shall change its shape.

The lesson is thus: you hold the power to frame your story. When grief comes, do not declare the ending. When joy comes, cherish it, but do not believe it eternal. Instead, walk forward, chapter by chapter, and embrace the truth that life is not a single tale, but many. Your “ending” lies where you choose to pause, not where fate demands.

So remember Orson Welles’s wisdom: the happy ending is not given, but chosen. Write your life with patience. Do not stop too early in despair, nor too proudly in triumph. Endure, continue, and shape your tale until, in the chapter you choose, you may find the ending that reflects not only fate, but the courage with which you lived it.